


Our Impeccable Leadership

by roseofgalaxies (callmelyss)



Category: Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Armitage Hux Has No Chill, Body Worship, Crack Treated Semi-Seriously, Darth Tantrum and his Evil Space Ginger, Dirty Talk, Holiday Special, Kylo Ren Has No Shirt, M/M, Non-Penetrative Sex, Post-TLJ, The Author Is Somewhat Sorry, Tits Out for the Dark Side, Titty fuck
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-19
Updated: 2020-11-19
Packaged: 2021-03-10 04:00:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,865
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27627145
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/callmelyss/pseuds/roseofgalaxies
Summary: "Say it, Hux," Ren leans in, much too close, his breath gusting like a Scarif breeze over the shell of his ear. "Say 'I want to fuck your big, stupid tits.'"His throat works; his face is burning brighter than a Blue giant on the verge of supernova. He allows his chin to dip, his forehead nearly touching Ren's shoulder, that as much a concession as whispering: "I—I want to fuck your big, stupid tits." He coughs, dry, spasming. "Supreme Leader."—The Supreme Leader and his treacherous General have begun to collaborate with unexpected success. There's only one problem: Ren's stopped wearing a shirt.
Relationships: Armitage Hux/Ben Solo | Kylo Ren, Armitage Hux/Kylo Ren
Comments: 58
Kudos: 215





	Our Impeccable Leadership

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by the absolutely wonderful LEGO Holiday special and Hux's obvious Awakening at seeing shirtless Kylo.
> 
> —
> 
> If you suffer from secondhand embarrassment, Hux's plight here might be somewhat difficult to read. However, Kylo does not humiliate him. As always, if you're looking for a safer reading experience, please reach out! I'm happy to help.

_Grand Moff Wilhuff A. Tarkin was born on Eriadu_ , _his family's home planet and hereditary responsibility_ , _sixty-four years before the battle of Yavin. He served in the Judicial department of the Old Republic until he was thirty—_

"Thirty-two or thirty-three?" Hux mutters aloud, worrying his bottom lip. 

He strides the length of the observation deck, his greatcoat flaring behind him as it once did on Starkiller, caught in a snowy gale. Lately, he's forgone it during administrative duties, not needing the extra layer to take reports or track fleet movements or attend High Command meetings on a star destroyer, but today, he wants it, its weight on his shoulders, grounding, like an embrace. Like the details of the Grand Moff's biography, committed to memory when he was seven, and his father shut him in a maintenance compartment for failing his physical examinations. That text had seemed a friend then, too.

 _The Tarkin Doctrine dictates the necessity of spectacle; the scope and magnitude of an attack are immaterial if there is no lasting impression of it. Targets, therefore, must be selected for maximum_ cultural and psychological _impact, which is to say not merely for their strategic importance, but for the impression made upon the civilian population. Victory is as much in the mind of the citizenry as it is in the successful defeat of one's military opponents._

Hux lets out a breath and straightens, lifting his chin. He nods to his attending lieutenant, still shiny-new from the Academy, with Mitaka promoted and several of his other favorites reassigned. Russell, her name is. She hands him his datapad. The chronometer shows just after 2100. Right, yes, he can proceed. Ren won't get the better of him this time—he won't.

* * *

Hux waits outside of Ren's chambers, hands clasped at the small of his back; he squeezes one wrist, then the other in succession, a continual feedback loop. The passing patrols give him a wide berth after they halt to salute, three sets of 'troopers now, all of them marching quickly down the corridor. No mistaking which door this is, whose door this is, and his people avoided it even before the title change. There had been a period after Crait when no one wanted to venture near it at all. When anyone walking by could hear the roars of frustration, the crash of overturned furniture, the hum and hiss of a lightsaber. When his officers seemed to beg wordlessly, _Anything but that, sir, please_ , if he sent them forth on business to Ren.

Hux had been sure those days would be the end of him, perhaps the end of the Order, too, Ren's temper spouting like a coronal ejection at anyone who dared come near, driving him to still more impulsive decisions than discharging their entire ballistic inventory against a single, unarmored Jedi while the Resistance vanished from under their noses. And Hux waited, each cycle, each word exchanged between them, for the Force's grip to tighten once more around his throat, crushing his windpipe, or to fling him into the nearest wall, snapping his bones. He had nearly resigned himself to it, _that_ his true destiny all along, to be crumpled in Ren's fist, no more consequential than a discarded piece of flimsi. 

Except that Ren—hadn't. Hasn't. Inexplicably.

Instead, the tantrums had slowed in their own time, then stopped altogether. And one early shift, he woke to find he had a meeting scheduled with the Supreme Leader. At Ren's request. He was contemplating a sector map when Hux arrived. _What should our next target be, would you say, General?_

Yes, even Hux can acknowledge conditions have improved in recent months, and Ren sounds sedate enough when he commands, "Enter," at last, the doors sliding open to admit Hux to the front room he's come to know well. The sparse, sharp-edged furnishings he favors, as Hux himself prefers, all sleek lines and low, dark sofas, holoscreens neatly concealed in the walls, clever compartments and gleaming accents, everything where it ought to be, and a massive chair at the center, currently empty. Not quite a throne, although near enough, and they'll need, eventually, to arrange for a receiving hall, something befitting the Supreme Leader, that so-necessary spectacle for the Galaxy's benefit. A display of Ren's power, authority. 

The thought tastes less acrid than it once did. He still means to usurp Ren, of course, at the first opportunity, to take his rightful place as head of the Order for good, but this is—unexpectedly tenable in the interim.

"Ah, Hux. Good. Have a seat."

Or it would be. He suppresses a shudder as Ren strolls into the room, shirtless.

Again.

The first time, he had thought it mischance, Ren fresh from the sonic, hair fluffy over his bare shoulders, just as their daily conference was about to begin and perhaps he had had no time to dress properly. If he had offered some explanation to that effect, Hux doesn't recall; he has vague memories of stammering his way through his report and excusing himself as speedily as possible, having sweat right through his uniform.

Much clearer: stroking his aching cock at the thought of his underdressed rival, burned clear in his mind's eye. He came twice that night thinking about it, about the glide of Ren's skin under his own, about the slick pressure of his chest around him, pectorals pushed firmly together, about painting his throat, the underside of his chin, his plush lips with come. Hux lay panting, shaken, before he staggered to the 'fresher to clean up, his thoughts swimming. If he slept especially soundly that rest cycle, well, that was both unremarkable and irrelevant. There had been few opportunities to relax since Snoke's death, and he had clearly failed to attend to his body's needs. Nothing more than that. Ren appealed to him no more than he had when they were co-commanders; the revelation of his naked chest was none at all.

Yes, the entire thing was an anomaly, he decided, for both of them.

Except it kept happening, keeps happening—more than three weeks of this now, his dreams more vivid every night, no matter how thoroughly he wears himself out before sleep. And here is Ren again, shirtless and barefoot, in nothing but loose workout pants that cling precariously to his hips, curling dark hairs visible above the waistband, clearly some heretofore-undocumented method of torture. Hux resists the urge to blot his brow and the back of his neck, already damp with perspiration.

He never would have imagined he would miss the helmet or the cowl or those dreadful, tatty robes, Ren playing at ascetic when he's nothing of the kind. At least he'd been able to _look_ at him without his mind descending into all sorts of treacherous meditations and daydreams—what it would be like to lick his way up from Ren's navel to the dip of his collarbone, to bite down on that pale, speckled skin, bruise it, draw blood. What he tastes like. If he— 

"General?" Ren asks. He's studying him as he has been more and more lately, since the first time, as though _Hux_ is the one behaving irrationally, wandering around half-naked during First Order business like that'sappropriate. He lifts an eyebrow, inquiring. "Something the matter?"

Hux's gaze scurries down the length of Ren's torso—broad and long and full, muscle and fat creating no few intriguing crests and valleys—before he can prevent it, before he jerks it back over his shoulder, pointedly studying the wall behind, a featureless, gray expanse. Good. "No, Supreme Leader. All is well." He clears his throat. "S-shall I? Make my report? Unless this isn't a good time. I can return when you're—better situated."

"Hux." Ren steps towards him, a ripple going through his pectorals, abdominals as he moves. "Look at me."

He does, unwillingly, fixating on Ren's long nose—only the curve of it invites him to glance lower, down the plane of his stomach, to those outrageously low-slung pants and—Hux can feel the blood rushing out of his head and towards his groin, dizzying. "Yes, sir?" His voice creaks.

A small frown settles between his brows, in the concave arc of his mouth, although he's not angry; Hux is well enough acquainted with his moods to know, none of the pressure shift when Ren's temper turns now. "Hux, I understand this hasn't been easy for you," he says, after a pause. "Especially with how we were—before."

Hux swallows a shrill laugh. _You have no idea._ But his attention wanders again before Ren continues, that broad chest drawing his eye, and the jagged lines of his scars, begging the question of their texture, sensitivity. Does Ren retain sensation there—? And he's never wanted put to put his mouth on something so badly in his life.

But Ren is still talking. "—how much I value you. We would never have been able to accomplish any of this without you."

Ordinarily, he would savor the praise, let it sit warm and glowing in his belly, where it might sustain his work for days, better than tarine or stims. But it washes through him, insubstantial. Ren's slightly flushed, his skin pinking in the warm room, and would it darken further if he dragged his teeth over it? If he grabbed and squeezed—or pulled? "Yes, sir, thank you, that's, ah. Very kind of you. Will that be all?" He edges towards the door.

"No. Hey." Ren's hand closes around his bicep, not tightly, not even so much he couldn't pull away if he wished, only halting his progress, less than an arm's length between them. And _kriff_ , Hux can see fine hairs around one rosy nipple. "I didn't dismiss you."

"Of course. Right." Being confronted with his face isn't much improvement, kaleidoscopic brown eyes and too-pink lips, chapped, slightly bitten, not so unlike his own. He's not quite scowling. "My apologies. Sir."

He sighs, rubbing his temple with his free hand. "What's going on, Hux? What do you have planned?"

"Planned?" Hux echoes, genuinely at a loss. Also trying to angle his pelvis as far away from Ren's as possible, as discreetly as he can.

"It's no secret you have ambitions," he elaborates, unusually patient. "Designs. You have—since Snoke. And the way you've been acting lately, I know—But the Order can't—and I'd rather not. If there's a way we might." He gazes up at Hux through his lashes, eyes widening, imploring. "Please just tell me what you want. A promotion. Your own ship. A governor's post, any world you like. It's yours."

Hux blinks, all the many calculations and algorithms and troop deployments draining away from his thoughts like melting ice. "You want to know what I want."

"Yes."

_I want you to put on a sithdamned shirt._

_I want to rub my face between your—_

"What was that?" Ren tilts his head, as though listening to a conversation in another room.

"Nothing," Hux answers, falling back into attention, cutting off the thought as firmly as he can. Not around Ren, around a mindreader—it'll be the end of him. "Sir. I am content with my role, and I will continue to proudly serve. You and the Order."

"No," he says, holding up a hand when Hux moves to retreat again. "No, you were thinking something else. What was it?"

"I—I don't know what you mean."

"Hux," Ren warns.

And he tries, he does, to think about anything but Ren and his unfairly glorious body, honed from years of combat and training, a weapon in and of itself, but also more than that, softnesses he's never imagined—and how dare he, how dare Kylo Ren be _soft_ anywhere—that he wants to feel for himself under his fingers and lips and also take between his teeth. Thinks of the Tarkin Doctrine; of the _Finalizer's_ schematics, every deck and hangar of her, her great engines; of the algorithm for subspace tracking, cycling, cycling, the temporal manipulation that makes it possible. Thinks of Edrison Peavey's sour face or the wrong end of a nerf or, or, or—

There's a fine sheen over Ren's full chest, glossing the pale skin, both nipples pebbling pink, begging to be sucked, and he smells _good_ , like sweat and soap and leather, and _I want to fuck your big, stupid tits, that's what I want_ jets across Hux's thoughts like a runaway speeder before he can do a damn thing about it.

Hux doesn't need to sense Ren's presence in his thoughts to realize that he heard, that he _saw_ —terrible understanding crawling over that expressive face—and now he knows, and everything, everything is over, his career, all his plans, and almost assuredly his life. He groans and shuts his eyes, waiting for what seems eons, the births and deaths of entire worlds, systems, turning in the lull.

"Say it," Ren says finally.

Hux's eyes snap open, and Ren is looking at him like—Ren's never looked at him like this, his entire affect changed, _his_ eyes like an event horizon, lips slightly parted, and he may be breathing more heavily than he was a moment ago.

"Say what you thought. Just now." His voice has gone throaty, lower than usual without the vocoder. "I want to hear you say it." 

"You already heard it," Hux protests, not quite whining, wishing he could melt into the floor or simply vaporize. Anything but this.

"Say it, Hux," Ren leans in, much too close, his breath gusting like a Scarif breeze over the shell of his ear. "Say 'I want to fuck your big, stupid tits.'"

His throat works; his face is burning brighter than a Blue giant on the verge of supernova. He allows his chin to dip, his forehead nearly touching Ren's shoulder, that as much a concession as whispering: "I—I want to fuck your big, stupid tits." He coughs, dry, spasming. "Supreme Leader."

Ren doesn't move. His cheek brushes Hux's sideburn; he nudges the insole of Hux's boot with one foot, as though asking for his attention. "So go ahead and do it."

"What?" Hux startles back, gawping at him. But his expression is entirely serious. If he's mocking him, there would be some sign—wouldn't there? _—_ because Ren only fancies himself a stoic; his eyes give him away every time. They're fixed on his, unwavering and inquisitive, and Hux wants to tug his greatcoat closed under the scrutiny, raise his collar, or, ideally, flee.

"I said, do it." It has the quality of a command. _General Hux, advance. General Hux, open fire. General Hux, report. General Hux—_

 _General Hux, fuck my tits_.

A high, crazed laugh burbles free of him, and he slaps a hand over his mouth, the leather of his glove stinging his lips and chin. 

Ren cants his head, still too close, oh, much too close, and furrows his brow. He takes Hux's wrist between his thumb and forefinger, shockingly delicate, as he could have never imagined Ren touching anything—surely those thick fingers lack the dexterity, the finesse, and if they can do this, then—and coaxes his arm away from his face. "You're General Armitage Hux of the First Order," he murmurs, thumb swiping over his pulse point. "Since when have you ever flinched from taking what you deserve?"

There had been that moment on the _Supremacy_ , months ago, when Ren lay unmoving among the debris and their Master severed in two pieces between the throne and floor, ash and devastation surrounding them both, and Hux had his blaster in his hand, his finger shivering on the trigger. When he should have. 

But he finds he doesn't want to think about that day just now, not when Ren's gently gripping his arm and looking at him like he believes him capable, resolute, all he wishes to be considered. "Never," he swears instead, willing it true going forward.

Ren smiles—rare for him—and it's as much about the way his eyes crease at the corners as anything his mouth does. "Good." He turns Hux's hand in his, deftly unfastens his glove, and slides it free before tucking it into the pocket of his coat for him, something almost courtly in the gesture. For a moment, they stay that way, Hux's hand cradled, palm up, in Ren's bigger one. Then he guides it to his chest, pressing it against the muscle, and they both hiss softly, unprepared. "So don't start now." 

His skin is warm and smooth under Hux's hand, and he can't help it now that he's touching him, what he's dreamed about for weeks—he squeezes, tentative, discerning the weight and give. Ren groans quietly, leaning forward as Hux rolls the heel of his hand, kneading his fingers in, massaging. His proximity should be alarming, dangerous, but Hux's body doesn't entirely agree, or else prefers it; his cock's stirring in his jodhpurs, rapidly regaining interest in the proceedings; his quickening pulse has little to do with fear. He drags his nails lightly down from Ren's collarbone to his nipple, leaving faint red lines, the two of them close enough that he feels him shudder, the hitch in his breathing.

And all at once, it isn't _enough_ , and Hux fumbles with his other glove, peeling it free and stuffing it with its mate in his pocket before shedding his greatcoat altogether against overheating. He doesn't protest when Ren seizes him around the waist and pulls him back in, as clear an invitation as any to continue.

He skims his fingers down the length of Ren's torso, admiring the way his abdominals tense at the touch and the tickle of hair below his navel and the sheer breadth and size of him, more than Hux can span with both hands, somehow standing motionless for him to explore as he wishes. _What do you want._ He grazes the scar on his side, left by the Wookiee's bowcaster shot on Starkiller, the tissue shiny-thick, and Ren shivers. _That answers that_. He slides both palms up his back, almost embracing him, feeling the heat come off his skin, like standing too close to a reactor. But that's Ren and has always been, that barely-contained power, even muffled by layers of wool and hide.

He clears his throat, puffing out his chest when Hux looks at him, as though to remind him of his orders.

"You want this," Hux says. Not a question, a conclusion. 

Indecent, the way Ren wets his lips, how his gaze flicks up and down Hux's full height, appreciative. "Yes."

"Is that why you—" He gestures at his naked chest. "Why you've kept doing this?"

"Doing what?"

" _This_ ," Hux snarls—the last weeks' frustrations surging through him, every night roughly working his cock until he finally found some slight relief—and grabs at Ren's chest again, hard, gripping both pecs. "Parading around like—"

He raises both eyebrows. "Like what?"

Hux plucks at one of his nipples, then the other, then both at once, not gently, feeling almost vicious as he does, tugging and rolling the nubs of them between his fingertips until they harden. "Without any modesty—"

A whine escapes Ren, the sound of it going straight to Hux's cock. " _Hux."_

"You've been driving me—fuck—" He pinches him now, on the meat of the muscle, reveling in how that makes him squirm. " _To_ _distraction_ , Ren."

"Show me," Ren says, somewhere between begging and ordering, and he yanks Hux forward, sinking back onto one of the black couches and pulling him on top of him in one continuous motion.

Hux stumbles, catching himself on those broad shoulders, flushing as his erection grinds against one thick thigh, the pressure tantalizing, inviting, and he rolls his hips, helplessly, chasing it. Sitting up on his elbows, Ren smirks at him, entirely too smug. _Bastard_ —Hux pushes him flat on the sofa, shifting to better straddle those long legs, pausing to admire him from this angle. Ren's chest is heaving from the effort, the beginning of a darker blush staining his neck, sternum. _Good._ Whether he thinks it or Ren says it, Hux doesn't know or care.

Shedding all hesitation, he leans over Ren, letting his hands wander as he brushes his lips against the hollow of his throat, then follows the kiss with a wet lick. Feels the vibration of Ren's throat, whatever noise he means to suppress, the rumble in his chest as he moves lower, drawing his tongue down the slope of his chest, leaving it spit-shiny and glistening. Those massive hands tighten on Hux's hips as he marks his progress here and there with a bite—the lightest application of his teeth to start, followed again with his tongue, lips, then again, harder. This, this is what he's wanted, the salt-sweat taste of Ren on his lips, this body, which rules the Galaxy, which could crush him in an instant, somehow also at his mercy, for his enjoyment. 

He licks a circle around one of Ren's aureolas—already puffy pink from being touched and pinched—before sucking it into his mouth entirely. 

" _Fuck_ ," Ren breathes, arching up against him, one hand cradling the base of Hux's skull, encouraging him. 

It's nearly meditative, suckling at him like this, and Hux allows his eyes to drift shut as he does, uncaring of the small, satisfied noises he's making around it, humming his contentment as he teases the hardened end of his nipple with his tongue and Ren all but keens. His left hand drifts to the other side of his chest, stroking and squeezing, his fingers fiddling, matching his rhythm. He thinks he might happily apply himself this way for hours and see how Ren likes _that_ , after tormenting him for so many cycles.

"I wasn't," Ren protests, answering the thought in the aggravating way he has, what he has no business overhearing.

Hux bites him for it.

And Kylo Ren, Master of the Knights of Ren, slayer of the last Zillo Beast and ten thousand insurgents, Supreme Leader of the First Order, the most formidable military organization the Galaxy has yet seen, _yelps_.

Hux relinquishes his hold on Ren's nipple to bare his teeth at him. Or it may be a smile. All he knows is Ren drags him forward and up, bringing their lips together for a bruising kiss, nothing gentle in it. The gesture startles him—it hadn't occurred to him to kiss Ren like this or that he would want to kiss _him_ , ever. But it's pleasant enough in its way, his mouth hot and slick and opening to Hux's without reservation, and he cedes to it, still grasping at Ren's chest, while he squeezes his hip, his arse, in turn.

They're both panting when they separate, and Hux has the opportunity to admire the work he's made of Ren, a dozen livid bite marks and scratches standing out against the pallor of his skin, both nipples red and worried, one still wet from his attentions, exactly how he's wanted. 

"There was something—else you wanted," Ren reminds him, fat pupils eating up the warm brown of his eyes.

Hux sags and presses his face to his chest, unable to hold back a moan as he does, or to keep from rubbing his nose and lips against it. This shouldn't be—he was perfectly fine before Ren subjected him to this, wrecking his plans and his composure in one fell swoop, as only he can do.

One big hand rubs a soothing circle between his shoulder blades. "You really have been suffering, hm?" he muses, not unsympathetic. "Take what you need."

Ren balances him with one hand as he shuffles up the sofa, knees bracketing his ribcage, staring down at him, those full lips, the sporadic pattern of his moles, the bob of his throat as he swallows. Hux unfastens his jodhpurs, drawing out his cock, flushed and aching in his hand. Not missing the way Ren's gaze darts down, considering. He shifts his weight, trying not to squirm under the scrutiny. 

"Hm," Ren hums and thrusts his chest out. "Like this?"

He reaches for both of Ren's pecs— _his tits_ —and pushing them together as he's imagined for too many nights. His mouth goes dry. "There," he says. "But I need."

There's a rattle, then a quiet _whoosh_ from across the room, and Hux narrowly avoids being struck in the face with a small bottle of lube, Ren's hand coming up just in time.

"If you think that will endear your Force to me, you're sadly mistaken." Hux scowls, although his hands are trembling as he takes the lube, slicking both his cock and Ren's chest.

"Go on, then, General," Ren answers, eyes glittering. "Take your pretty, little dick and—how did you put it? Fuck my big, stupid tits."

"Your big, stupid, _beautiful_ tits," Hux groans as he slides his cock between them for the first time, the perfect swell of them around him, warm and slippery and _yes._ "Oh fuck, _Ren_."

"Kylo," he corrects, grunting as Hux begins to thrust against him. "If you're going to fuck my tits, you can—shit—call me Kylo."

"Kylo," Hux wails, bracing both hands against the arm of the sofa as he finds a quicker rhythm, snapping his hips forward, skin slapping wetly, obscenely against Ren's pecs as he does, the flesh of them shaking. It's exactly as he's imagined it these past weeks, delicious pressure around him, and Ren laid out under him, for him, his use, his skin rosy-red and sweat-damp, hair curling against the side of his throat, his cheek, tongue flicking between his teeth. But he hadn't thought to imagine the stream of encouragement and goading from Ren, _Just like that, Hux, give it to them good, come on, you can do better than that, harder, there, I thought you said you wanted—show me, good, yes, yes_ , or his bright attention, the loud, stuttered sound of his breathing _._

Before long, Hux's collar is clinging, tacky, uncomfortable to his throat, his shirt to his back, and his boots squeaking against the sofa frame, and his skin feels hot, too tight from his scalp to the soles of his feet. He almost regrets not undressing to do this, for all that he would be naked in front of Ren. Although it hasn't concerned Ren at all, apparently, to be naked in front of him. 

His gaze meets Ren's then, and everything stops, a peculiar understanding passing between them, _yes that, exactly_ , before Hux's cock spurts between Ren's pecs, catching them both off guard, Hux jerking against him, cursing. Streaks of come stripe Ren's long throat, his jaw, chin, more than Hux expected. 

He catches himself after, braced over Ren, gasping for air, his softening cock dragging over his chest. "Fuck, oh, fuck." 

Ren gives him an aggravatingly self-satisfied smile. "Feel better?"

"Yes—shit," Hux says, his capacity for lying in utter ruin. But then, his come is on Kylo Ren's face, his pectorals smeared with lube and saliva and pre-come. And he's done that. Fuck. "That was."

"Good," Ren says, approving, and tucks one arm behind his head.

"Do you need—?" Hux reaches back, not out of any real consideration for Ren, of course, only because he looks far too pleased with himself, and he won't allow that to stand unchallenged. But Ren is as spent when he touches him through the damp fabric of his trousers. An unnameable thrill—shock, accomplishment, further desire—goes through Hux, and he shudders, his cock giving a weak twitch. "Kylo, did you?" _From that alone?_

"What?" He shrugs, not the least bit sheepish. "I liked it, too."

It's too much; Hux falls forward, catching Ren's lips in the sloppiest, filthiest kiss he's shared with anyone, wholly unbothered by the mess they're making of each other. And Ren returns it with equal enthusiasm, sucking Hux's lower lip into his mouth, biting at it. 

"All this because I wasn't wearing a shirt?" he murmurs, wondering, when they part, stroking the line of Hux's jaw with his thumb, both of them sticky.

"Standards of dress exist for a reason," Hux sniffs, still irritable. Nonetheless, he allows himself to be coaxed to settle against Ren, for all that he should be cleaning up, straightening his uniform, returning to his own chambers. But Ren's chest is soft and warm under his cheek when he rests against it, and he is all at once disinclined to move. They _have_ been working long hours.

Ren tucks a hand around his waist, chuffing in quiet amusement. "I am Supreme Leader," he points out, and this time, the reminder doesn't gall him at all.

Temporarily, Hux is sure. Something to do with endorphins. He'll feel differently after he's slept; indeed, nothing has changed.

"One should lead by example." Hux yawns, lethargy overtaking him now. Perhaps he might rest a while here. And perhaps— "I suppose an exception might be made. For morale."

"Well," Ren rumbles, and he sounds as drowsy as Hux feels. "If it's for morale, how can I refuse?"

"Flawlessly reasoned, Supreme Leader."

"At ease, General Hux."

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! <3
> 
> Please feel free to make tit puns with me on [Twitter.](https://twitter.com/aroseofgalaxies)


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